


The Line Between Soup and Sleep

by Sethrial



Category: After the Storm - Hannah Birchwood & Key Dyson & Raymond Roach
Genre: Canon-adjacent, Drabble, Gen, Old Aces in like, Queerplatonic Relationships, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sethrial/pseuds/Sethrial
Summary: Phil makes some soup. Ben gives him feedback on a new recipe.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	The Line Between Soup and Sleep

“Try this,” Phil hands Ben a bowl of some kind of soup. It’s thicker than his usual summer soups, more like what he would normally make in the depths of winter, and smells wonderfully rich and fishy. 

Ben tries a spoonful, then goes back for a second bite and tries to get a chunk instead of just broth. “It’s good.” 

“Don’t stroke my ego,” Phil says. 

“Less salt next time,” Ben amends.

“Thought so,” Phil says, and sits next to him on his couch. “That’s half of what the recipe called for. What else?” 

“Smaller chunks. I feel like I should have a fork.” The meat chunks -- Ben is fairly certain they’re clams, but he’s not certain -- are fine, but the potato is cut just a little too big. He tries another bite. It genuinely is good soup, miles better than anything Ben could make for himself, but Phil doesn’t come to him for praise unless he’s done something truly incredible. “Maybe a little heavier on the spice. Give it a more complex profile.” 

Phil makes a couple notes in his cooking journal. “Good. Next round might be worth sharing. Maybe.” 

“The boys would like this if you felt like letting them try it.” 

Phil snorts. “The boys would eat hardtack if I plated it with a slice of lemon.” 

“Yeah, teenagers,” Ben agrees, and doesn’t drag the conversation any deeper. Phil has his own issues with food, with eating the same thing every day and trusting it to not give him scurvy or worse. A lot of older people have the same problems. It took the Fleet a few years to perfect the standard rations, and a few years after that before they were universally available and enough for a growing population. 

Ben is young enough that he doesn’t mind the rations or feel weird eating the same thing three meals a day, but he still gets low grade anxiety when he misses a meal, during a storm or when he’s on a job off ship that goes a little too long, that can carry over for days of counting and double counting calories to make sure he hasn’t been shorted. He’s not hungry, hasn’t been in a long time, but some habits die hard. 

Phil is thinking about it too, by the look on his face, about starving and working his ass off day after day anyway. Freeloaders didn’t eat, and the little bit of food you could get for a hard day’s work in the Fleet was better than the dressed up nothing they were handing out for the same back-breaking labor in Chicago. 

“Hey,” Ben says when he’s fought down the memory of a fistful of money and nothing for sale. 

“Hey yourself.” 

He bumps his shoulder against Phil’s. “It’s good soup. What’s the calorie content like?” 

“Bowl like that, 400 and change.” 

“Trade you for it. Block a bowl?” Ben offers. 

“How much do you want? My recipe made about a quart.” 

“I’ll take anything you don’t want.” 

Phil nods. “Get me four blocks. I’ll leave you a couple containers in the downstairs fridge.” 

Ben’s losing calories on it, and a small, distant, frightened part of him churns at the almost an entire block he won’t get if he trades it for a lower calorie alternative. He shuts that part of his brain in a box and kicks it into the back of his mind. It’s good soup, and Ben’s not starving. “I’ll have them for you tomorrow.” 

Phil knocks shoulders with Ben. “You better, you goddamn freeloader.” 

“You’re one to talk, you lazy bastard. When’s the last time you worked a day shift?” 

“Same day I had my last performance complaint,” Phil snarks back. “You’re the head of my department. Shouldn’t you know that?” 

“Go to bed, you useless juvenile.” 

“Look who’s talking. I have wrinkles older than you, brat.” He bumps him again and Ben’s lunch sloshes. 

“Hey! Soup!” he warns. 

“Pff. You’re fine.” 

“Go to bed, Phil,” Ben says. It’s almost 1400, long past when he’s usually asleep. Phil has a bad habit of trying to fit more hours in the day, working and cooking and keeping up with his millions of nieces and nephews. Always has, as long as Ben has been department head, and his predecessor made a note of it as well. Half the techs do the same thing, but Phil can’t get away with running on fumes anymore the way these dumb teenagers can. “You’re not missing anything, staying up.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he sighs, then groans and eases up from the couch. Phil gets weird when he stays up too late, and he knows it. Either punch-drunk and looking for a fight, or just plain mean. He’s got something going on, some unnamed neurodivergence, but it’s never been a big enough deal that he wants any help with it, and Ben isn’t going to force an issue he has handled.

Phil pauses with his hand on the door handle and half turns back, looking like he wants to argue.

“It’s good soup, Phil. Next time it’ll be perfect. Go to bed.” 

Phil laughs at himself. “I’m going, I’m going.” 

**Author's Note:**

> We ship two old men in this house. 
> 
> Sorry for the unfortunate shortness of this piece. It was a little bit of a scene that wouldn't leave my head until I wrote it down. 
> 
> Leave me a kudos or a comment if you liked it!


End file.
